


the nearness of you

by stonedlennon



Series: how we won the war [3]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1930s, 1939, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Build, War Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: John meets Paul for lunch. Somehow they end up in a photobooth. September, 1939.





	

**Author's Note:**

> if you're at all interested, i have a tag on my blog specifically for this series. [please help me.](stonedlennon.tumblr.com/tagged/how%20we%20won%20the%20war)
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. the amount of support and positive energy this lil old thing is garnering is just amazing. you're all fantastic. thank you! in case you're wondering about how _much_ of a slow burn this will be.. the answer is: smoldering.
> 
>  **ALSO PLEASE CHECK OUT[THIS GRAPHIC](http://stonedlennon.tumblr.com/post/156863275832/pivoinesque-i-will-find-you-love-you-marry) BY @PIVOINESQUE!!** i have screamed about it like a thousand times.. but i don't think i'll ever get over how perfect that aesthetic is for this series.
> 
> oh! and the cartoon that i've linked to that john "draws" isn't it, for obvious reasons, but just picture him drawing something similar to that and you get the idea :~)

_To jaw-jaw is always better than to war-war._

\- Sir Winston Churchill, 1939.

* * *

 

Not for the first time, John was late for work. Unlike most people, however, this did not make him move any faster.

As the morning staff clattered down the front steps of the Post and Echo building, briefcases swinging, hats coming onto neat heads as they dashed for trams home, John began his ascent to hell. There were worse places to work, to be sure. Mimi used to fear his terrible attention in school and his predilection for sagging off would have him become a dockworker – and oh, what shame he would bring on the family! – but by some miracle he’d become a Political Commentator (the title only to be delivered with a snide upper-crust impression). Granted, Old Hall was no Fleet Street. But beggars, choosers.

John nodded hello to those he recognized as they spilled past. “Alright, Bertie,” he said, cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth, “How’s it, Peter.”

“You’re in fer a treat,” Peter told him with raised eyebrows. John frowned and stopped mid-step to watch Peter hurry past. “How’d ye pick that, then?” he called.

Peter gestured vaguely with the hat in his hand. “War waits for no one.” Behind him a tram came rattling along, brimming with morning commuters. Across the side of it was emblazoned the words HITLER STRIKES – POLAND FALLS! Glancing both way before he darted out into the bustling street, Peter shouted over his shoulder, “And Martin’s on a schedule!”

 _Christ._ George bloody Martin. Forget his Cary Grant looks: the man was a London menace. His thought process must have shown on his face because Peter barked out a laugh as he put his hat on. He yelled something else before the crowd swallowed him whole. John took a sharp drag of his cigarette, feeling irritable. If Paul had a swarm of Oxbridge naval officers thumbing their noses at the lower ranks, John had a Southern toff whose humour was as dry as a witch’s tit.

The prospect of slinking away and curling in the corner of his favourite cafe was immensely promising. John dithered for a moment, peering back up at the enormous sandstone building before him, one leg poised on the step above. The architectural quagmire into which the  _Liverpool Echo_ sank was something out of last century. With an imposingly tall façade, designed no doubt to rival the Liver building a street over, one had little trouble believing that this one place printed and circulated both of Liverpool’s newspapers. Instead of ruining its attraction, [the wall of sandbags that lined the base of the buildings](http://i1.liverpoolecho.co.uk/incoming/article6669657.ece/ALTERNATES/s615/2603711.jpg) only gave it a more austere appearance. John exhaled the smoke through his nose. He dropped the cig and crushed it underfoot. Adjusting his holdall, he shoved one hand in the pocket of his jacket, and started jogging up the stone steps.

In lieu of the usual chirpy secretaries and brusque but friendly journalists, everyone had put their po-face on this morning. John miserably sloped through the foyer. The air rang loud with telephones and typewriters, the sound of high heels and brogues cracking like gunshots on the marble floor. Upon squashing himself into the elevator, John folded himself into a corner and distracted himself from Imminent Doom by sneaking glances at the bosom of the young typist beside him.

John elbowed his way out on the fifth floor. This high up, one could glimpse the wrinkled grey waters of Albert Dock. Imposing naval vessels cut against the horizon with the solemn ceremony of gravestones. An apt metaphor, now that he thought about it.

He went past a couple of typing pools. Cigarette smokestacks trailed up towards the high, steel-beamed ceilings. John vaguely remembered that at one stage, the designers had wanted a utilitarian look to instil a sense of assembly line efficiency. The effect was slightly ruined by the rows of windows along one wall, all of which welcomed the weak September sunlight in to linger on the scuffed wooden floorboards, effectively softening their huge office space so that, were one so inclined, you could bunker down at your desk behind one of the steel pillars and have an afternoon kip. Provided Martin wasn’t stalking about.

John shrugged off his jacket as he headed towards the corner of the spacious floor. There, sequestered away like so many Quasimodos in the tower, were his men with pens.

“Why, good morning!” John greeted sarcastically. Klaus didn’t look up from his inking.

“Aren’t you late,” he said indistinctly. Aside from the shadow of an accent, Klaus could easily pass for a Brit.

Their four desks made up their square of the office. They were closed off by wooden half-partitions, upon which were pinned innumerable bits of paper and scraps of sketches. Klaus’ desk overlooked the elevator and, more specifically, the columnist’s office section. As John tossed his things onto his own desk, he narrowed his eyes over at a portly fella holding court by a big potted fern. A pipe belched from one gesticulating hand. After a proud finish, a gaggle of warmongering cronies clamoured to give congratulations.

“At it again,” John noted curtly.

Klaus finished a line and dipped his pen briefly into the ink pot. “He’s been ‘at it’ all morning. His son joined the R.A.F.”

Pulling out his notebooks from his leather holdall, John continued to glare at the bloke from across the office. “He’s fat an’ stupid enough. With any luck, he’ll get so homesick for his little lad he’ll bugger off and leave us in peace.”

Klaus turned suddenly in his seat. His pinched, slightly anaemic features were exaggerated by a shock of dark hair and a high-collared white shirt. “A new record, Lennon,” he said primly. “You’ve just made me a rich man.”

Shooting him a flat look, John sat down heavily at his desk. “Is this the part where I ask ‘what’?”

“Wooler and I have a pool,” Klaus confided cheerfully. He raised an eyebrow and put his pen down by his drawing board. “He said you’d hold out at least until October. I said you’ll make me two bob before the week was out.”

“What the hell are ye talkin’ about?”

“You,” Klaus said, “abstaining from the war.”

“Yeah, because I’ve been a right steel trap on that front.”

“Until now,” Klaus replied, ignoring his sarcasm. John sneered. “Finish yer line work, Voorman.”

A tall blonde figure sailed through the cacophony. George Martin rested his elbow on one of their wooden partitions. Klaus sat up straight; John lit a cigarette.

“Late again, Mister Lennon,” Martin said, glancing at his watch. He thinned his lips, as if to communicate he had far more important things to do, and regarded John’s messy desk. “Have you read my morning memo, yet?”

“I have, sir,” John pronounced. “Very informative it was, sir, indeed.”

“Wonderful,” Martin replied crisply. “In that case, please have the pieces to me by nine. We’re behind on the evening supplement.” He raised a calm eyebrow. “I assume you’ll have something suitably witty enough ready in time.”

John pointed with his cigarette and gave him a smug smile. “Don’t ye worry about a thing, sir. I’ve got it all up ‘ere.” To illustrate, he tapped the side of his head.

“A worrying prospect. Nine o’clock, Lennon.”

“Aye, aye.” As Martin turned and went over to another section, John’s face fell as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Wordlessly, Klaus tipped back in his chair and handed over a pink slip of paper. “Knew I kept ye around fer a reason,” John commented. He took the memo and peered at it.

“Shit,” he said after a pause.

A familiar dark figure came and leaned on the wooden partition. Harry furrowed his brow in John’s direction and asked, “Have y’seen Martin’s memo?”

John lowered the paper and stared at him. “Neutrality? Is this a bloody joke?”

A smile crept onto Harry’s mouth. He traded a coy look with Klaus. “Thought the man was abstaining?”

“He’s changed his mind,” Klaus quipped.

“A pair of comedians, the both of ye.” The memo, scrawled in Martin’s own hand, simply said, ROOSEVELT – ARMS EMBARGO – NEUTRALITY PATROL.  _Bloody unbelievable,_ John thought. Trust the Yanks to keep their noses out. No doubt they’d bought Chamberlain’s quaffing about Britain sweeping up the war before the year was finished. The Great British Navy, and so on.

There came a sudden rumbling from the street. John met Klaus and Harry’s twin looks of frank surprise. As one, they rushed towards the windows. John peered short-sightedly down at the tram lines. Commuters and pedestrians had gathered to the pavements to watch the convoy roll past: [enormous army trucks churned along](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/f9/a1/6f/f9a16fb93851e047dbdf301299117c9c.jpg), and affixed to the back of them were long platforms upon which [dark green aeroplanes were strapped down](https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2550/4101817069_5e79ed3b54.jpg).

“Oh, hell,” Harry breathed.

The planes were larger than they were in photographs or in film; that was John’s first thought. The second was much more present: Liverpool was a naval base – what were aeroplanes doing here? He was too far away to see which flag, if any, was emblazoned on their wings. Five trucks went past, the wingspan of each plane just clearing the width of the street. Further up the block a tram rattled along behind them at a near-halt. The burble of the crowd below colluded with the conversation in the office. John was distantly aware that the raucous discussion from before had lapsed, and instead every able-bodied man had their faces pressed to the windows.

When the last truck disappeared from sight, rolling on towards the docks, they stepped back. John rumpled a hand through his disordered hair. He caught Klaus’ wide-eyed expression.

“Part of the Yanks’ ‘Neutrality Patrol’, d’ye reckon?” John asked dubiously.

“They’ve got better planes than us,” Klaus supplied. “They take off from their East Coast. It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump across the Atlantic for them.”

“Don’t say that to the R.A.F.,” John quipped on reflex. He found he was biting his bottom lip, like he used to when he was a kid. “What’re they doin’  _here,_ then?” he pressed.

Harry, who was a culture correspondent without the faintest about current events, said importantly, “I’ll find out,” and bustled off.

As Klaus murmured something to himself and went back to his desk, John hovered by the window. He peered down the street, although the trucks had long since turned down towards the water. Ordinarily he’d listen to the wireless first thing in the morning or in the evening, provided he wasn’t elsewhere getting stinking drunk. That morning, however, he’d risen late and his wretched neighbour had been in the shared W.C. for twenty sodding minutes, so John had only managed to suck down a cup of lukewarm tea and have a cat wash in the kitchen sink. The world felt very topsy-turvy. For a bloke who worked in papers, he often hadn’t the foggiest as to what went on.

John thought fleetingly of what the planes would mean for Paul, and the corresponding twist in his stomach made him feel ill.

He dragged himself back to his desk. Someone across the office had turned on a wireless with the volume down low. The excitement of the trucks had rapidly dissolved and segued into an ordinary morning at work: telephones rang, typewriters clacked, papers rustled, lighters sparked. John tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and forced himself to contemplate his drawing board. The white piece of paper pinned there seemed mockingly blank.

The pink slip kept catching in his peripheral vision. Sticking his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he picked it up and studied the memo. ARMS EMBARGO. A little thought flitted through his mind.

John puffed out some smoke and drew his income tray towards him. There was a modest stack of papers there, most of them requests for illustrations – several more of Martin’s ominous pink slips lurked between the more innocuous, cheery memos from the sports department. Flipping through a few of them, John calculated how many comics he’d have to draw today to make his minimum quota.

As things went, cartoonists were more or less the bottom of the scrap heap. The  _Echo_ was a cheap-arsed bastard of a paper whose new budget thought the drawing, inking, colouring, and finishing was best left entirely to them.  The expectation that a droll witticism be delivered in time for a page three column left no room for the imagination.

Klaus had returned to inking. “Are you working yet?”

John shot the back of his head a dark look and snapped, “Aye.”

Holding his cigarette between his first and middle fingers, John pushed his specs further up his nose and reached for a pencil stub. The morning sunlight puddled on his back and spilled over his shoulder, illuminating the first few quick strokes he made. As he drew, his mind wandered.

For a while he distracted himself by listening to the distant sports scores on the wireless, or the catty exchange of gossip between the tea girls as they did their rounds. Inevitably, however, he only returned to a certain naval officer with a slender waist, that flirtatious hazel gaze, and a full, pink mouth.

John blinked suddenly at the doodle he’d squashed into the corner of his drawing board. A pair of laconic, big-lashed eyes stared woefully at Churchill, who held the Atlantic on a plate just out of reach from Hitler, whose arms were restrained by Roosevelt.  _Too obvious._ John snorted in disdain and drew a quick line through the cartoon.

Fragments of last night kept coming back to him. The sweet sound of jazz as Paul’s hand rested on John’s waist, making his skin run hot; the whisper that separated their two warm bodies; and afterwards, when they’d returned to the bar, Paul had ducked in to murmur in his ear,  _Not bad, Johnny, lad._ Even the memory made his fingers twitch on his pencil.  _Write to me,_ Paul asked boldly, and then, with a smile,  _I’d like that._

Cigarette smoke wound upwards to curl in his fringe. John added an admiral cap to the little Paul doodle. On impulse, he gave Paul’s figure a slight Betty Boop flair: he blamed it on the coquettish way in which Paul had said goodnight, as if his imminent deployment was but a pause in a prolonged conversation between the two of them. The trouble was, John felt as if he were two steps behind in a dance he ought to know.

 _God,_ he’d been a bastard. All night flirting with Paul – or trying to – and it’d taken Dim Lennon, the biggest fool in Britain, half the evening to find out that come tomorrow, Paul would be off to sea. His throat tightened unexpectedly at the thought. John needed no more reasons to be furious at the war, but the final injustice, that he should meet someone like  _that_ and a time like  _this,_ was fuckin’ Grecian in its degree of tragedy. Sucking down the rest of his cigarette in one short movement, John stabbed it out in the ashtray on his desk. He glared down at his Paul caricature.

The telephone rang just as he took a piece of charcoal to Paul’s dark naval uniform. Tossing the charcoal down, John yanked the receiver free.

“Yes, Lennon, illustrations,” he snapped.

“Outside call for you, Mister Lennon,” the telephone operator told him coolly. “L18 district. Do you want to be put through?”

L18? Where the hell was that? John eyed his miserable attempts at work and said, “Yeah, alright. Thanks.”

The line dropped for a moment; he listened to the faint clicking as the operator connected them. John had reached for his pack of cigarettes when the rotary sounded once. After a beat, a familiar voice went, “Hello, John?”

John’s pulse doubled. “Paul?”

“Yeah, hullo. Didn’t know if I had the right place.” There was a bashful smile in his tone. An image came unbidden to him: Paul, in the naval barracks, holding the phone with one of those slender-fingered, thin-boned wrists. The thought made John swallow thickly. “Luckily there’re only two papers in Liverpool, eh?”

“Yeah, lucky.” John panicked at his cigarettes for a moment. “Uh, so. Are ye alright?”

Paul laughed in surprise. “’Course I am. It’s tomorrow when the danger’s nigh.”

“Or the tide.”

“That too. Though I don’t reckon we’d stop fer that.”

To his utter mortification, there was an awkward pause. A nervous energy flitted through veins. John held his forehead in his palm. “Right, yeah.”

Paul cleared his throat. It sounded like he was trying not to laugh again (at John? with him?). “I know you’re at work,” he started smoothly, “sorry ‘bout that. I was wonderin’, though. We’ve got a half day because, well, y’know, and I was wonderin’ if you’d like to –”

“Yes,” John blurted.

“Have lunch – oh, great!” A teasing flicker entered Paul’s tone. “That eager, are ye?”

“You’re the one who called,” John pointed out.

“Only bein’ polite,” Paul replied breezily. “S’pose that makes ye the bird, no?”

An entirely inappropriate scene flashed brazenly through John’s mind. He made a strangled sort of sound.

As Paul laughed again, John could see the way he’d look: nose wrinkled just slightly, his head tilted to the side, a slightly quizzical, albeit pleased, shade to his expression. “I’ll remember that,” Paul warned playfully. “Anyroad, I’ve not got much time. M’at me Dad’s right now. Shall I meet ye in town at noon?”

“There’s a place by the rail station,” John supplied, thinking of where he wanted to slink off to that morning. “Small, like, but decent. S’just outside it. Got a blue awning.”

“There you’ll find me yawning,” Paul said. “I’ll see ye at noon?”

“Grand,” John said, and immediately felt like bottling himself. “Alright.”

“Great.” There was a pause. “Sorry again fer ringin’ ye at work. Hope it’s no bother.”

John surreptitiously glanced around the office. “More like a boon, t’be honest. I should ‘ead, though. Got a stack t’do before nine.”

With polite confusion, Paul said, “It’s past nine.” As John searched around for a clock and swore vehemently, Paul laughed, seemingly unconcerned at John’s haphazard work habits. “Alright, I’ll let ye go. Bye, John.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said vaguely, and hung up.  _Bugger it,_ he thought, George Martin’s face swimming into view. Then, upon realizing what he’d agreed to,  _Oh, fuck._

The rest of the morning was spent in a barely concealed flurry of activity. Martin didn’t reappear, but Klaus started giving him nervous looks around nine thirty, and by ten he was making thoughtful comments about John’s imminent dismissal. By some stroke of fortune, John cobbled together three cartoons that were [pithy with their disdain for America](http://img1.izismile.com/img/img2/20090212/caricatures_15.jpg) - but altogether a rubbish selection that Martin would probably lynch him for.

As he gathered them in an envelope and hurriedly sealed it, John’s pen hovered over the front of it.  _Another Lennon Original,_ he wanted to write to Martin, but settled for,  _Imbibe with good news. J.W.L._

“If I’m not let back into the building after lunch,” John told Klaus as he threw his coat on, “don’t send out a search party.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Klaus replied. He tucked a dark curl behind one ear and frowned as John crammed a series of papers into his holdall. “Where are you off to, anyway?”

John wordlessly held up the brown envelope. Klaus raised his eyebrows in sympathy. “No search party. Understood.”

After depositing the envelope to Martin’s secretary, John legged it out of the building before he received ten lashes for disobedience.

The temperature had dropped since that morning; in a bout of unprecedented September chill, his breath fogged a little in the weak sunlight. A sharp ocean breeze cut up Hall, ruffling John’s hair and tangling his fringe in his glasses. He made the precarious navigation a few blocks south to the train station, all the while attempting to smoke a cigarette, fix his glasses, and stop his papers from escaping each time the wind picked up. By the time the enormous, industrial looking station came into view, John’s nerves had dissolved into strident irritation.

The blackened steel beams of the train station arched over the top of the little café on the corner where he lurked. When he was a starving junior at the  _Echo,_ their ham butties and weak cups of tea had been akin to heaven. John vaguely considered the possibility that Paul might have wanted somewhere nicer, when in his peripheral vision, he caught a familiar figure across the street.

John had to exhale a hasty stream of smoke before he choked. Trams and cars rumbled by, and pedestrians hurried on past, heads bowed, the clamour of Liverpool at noon competing with the howl of train whistles in the distance. John watched as Paul glanced both ways across the street, his coat flapping against his knees. Long-legged Paul darted through a gap in the traffic and fell into a jog, grinning once he caught John’s eye.

“Alright,” Paul greeted cheerfully. His cheeks were pinched with cold and he panted lightly through his mouth. Beneath a tweed flat cap his inky hair was only slightly ruffled by the sea air. John had, for some reason, expected Paul to turn up in his uniform, but he realized now it was only wishful thinking.

 “In yer civvies,” John observed wryly. He took a long drag from his cigarette and studied Paul from top to bottom. When their gaze met, he was startled to find that the colour in Paul’s cheeks had deepened.

“They’ve sent me measurements out for a new uniform,” Paul explained. “Turns out getting’ a commission means perks after all.”

 _Don’t get into it,_ John told himself suddenly. The lad was off tomorrow: what sort of a bastard would he be if he dragged them into a philosophical conversation? “Right, then,” he said instead, hoping for casual but sounding vaguely irritated. John cut his eyes over his shoulder to the café. “Shall we go in?”

“Yeah, alright.” John chucked his cig and lead the way. The windows of the café were steamed up from the inside, the small painted sign over the door depicting a loony-looking conductor waving past an assembly of baked goods. Any bell that might have altered their entrance was swallowed by the dull roar of the train station echoing in the café’s tiny interior. A continuous window along one side was fronted by a line of workers on stools, most of them smoking or eating, some flicking through a newspaper. A tiny counter, behind which was a service hatch, was crammed into the corner by the door.

Paul, who’d gone in first, smiled at the waitress by the register. John found himself surreptitiously watching Paul as they wound through the warren. He took off his cap and smoothed a light hand over his hair, then adjusted the slim dark tie at his neck. Soft dark hair curled a little over his forehead; Paul appeared somewhat smudged, mussed, a playful smile warming his full mouth as he spoke to the waitress. John’s chest tightened.

They found a table at the far end of the cafe and sat opposite one another. As he undid his coat, John realized half of his buttons were done up the wrong way. Scowling down at himself, he heard Paul say, “Two cuppas to start, love, if that’s alright?”

To distract himself, John busily shrugged his jacket off and put it over the back of his wooden chair. Pushing his glasses further up his nose, he peered out the window and started to clear a circle in the condensation. The world outside looked very far away, as if they were sitting in a submarine.

“So.” Paul crossed his arms on the table in front of him. The woollen vest he wore over his shirt looked well-worn; there was a small navy pin affixed to the front of it. “Why here, then?”

“Been comin’ here since I can remember,” John replied, leaning forward and mirroring Paul’s body language. He toyed with the salt shaker. Glancing through his fringe to meet Paul’s steady gaze, he added, “I know from experience ye can sit here for hours and they won’t say a word.”

Paul smirked playfully. “Ah, I see. Is this when you’re supposed t’be drawin’ the news of the world?”

“Scribbling,” John corrected. “I’ve not got the talent fer drawin’.” When Paul narrowed his eyes at him, John added, “And that’s not modesty, son. In case ye thought I was fishing for a pick me up.”

“Aren’t ye?” Paul asked with swift shrewdness. Before John could reply, the waitress brought their two cups of tea. Paul glanced up and smiled warmly at her. “Thanks, love.”

John immediately picked it up and took a long gulp. Over the lip of his cup he let himself study the set of Paul’s broad shoulders. He’d not been around many military men in his time, mainly because he hated their very existence, but Paul held himself in a manner that was quite unlike the rough, ex-naval officers turned dockers that swaggered around the streets of Liverpool and got into pub brawls. Paul warmed his hands around his cup and took a sip. Despite the way his shirt stretched distractingly across Paul’s well-defined forearms, his wrist bones were prominent in a way that made John remember the ease with which he’d played the piano, the trumpet.

After a languid moment, Paul’s eyes slid to his. In his haste to take a sip of tea, John spilled some on the table.

John swore and Paul’s smirk deepened. “Clumsy Lennon,” he observed. “Any reason fer that, d’ye reckon?”

“Now who’s fishing?” John pressed some napkins into the puddle of tea. He felt Paul’s gaze linger for a beat longer before he put down his own cup and reached for the paper menu. John shook out his damp hand. “I’d not bother with that, if I were you.”

“Egg and chips joint, is it?” Paul’s brows quirked. They shared a shy smile. Paul put the menu back and recrossed his arms on the table. With a short sigh, he said, “Thank God. Been hankerin’ for some comfort food all morning.”

After wiping his hands on his trousers - “Nice one, John,” Paul said sarcastically – John shot him a cheeky grin and went rummaging for his cigarettes. He tapped two out and lit them. When he handed one to Paul, who accepted it with a pleased, “Thanks,” John asked, “How is old man McCartney, anyroad? Sobbin’ his eyes out that his lad is off to sea?”

Paul’s mouth made a small sucking noise on the cigarette. “Yeah, actually,” he replied belatedly.

 _Mouth, meet foot._ “Ah, Christ.”

Waving his cigarette hand in a _don’t mind yerself_ gesture, Paul shrugged one shoulder. “S’alright, really. He’s got me younger brother t’keep him company. Can’t join up and think you’re just there t’sit pretty in uniform, y’know. He knew I’d go, sooner or later.”

“Ye said summat about a naval commission,” John remembered. He tapped some ash into the saucer of his tea cup. “What’s that entail, then? Inspectin’ buttons, going on marches?”

“If only,” Paul replied wryly. “Well, s’only a junior position. Sub-lieutenant. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but.” He shrugged and, with a tilt of his wrist, took a pull from his cigarette.

John vaguely observed the shape Paul’s lips made as he exhaled some smoke. “So, you’re really going, then. Off to war.”

If the reality of their situation was trying to wave him onshore, John was stuck out in a life raft, without his glasses, peering through the torrential rain and unable to make his way back to land.

When Paul looked at him, John’s pulse sounded in his ears.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I am.”

The warm light of the café illuminated the soft slope of Paul’s jaw, the thoughtfulness in his hazel eyes. He tipped his head to the side as his eyes dropped to pick up his cup, and John thought, _Lennon, you fool._

John cleared his throat. “Do ye… D’ye know if –”

“Anything to eat, lads?” The waitress stopped beside their table, one hand in the pocket of her floral apron. Paul tore his gaze from John and blinked up at her. “Two plates of egg and chips, if ye don’t mind,” he said politely, a smile tripping over his mouth. John nervously took a pull from his cigarette. As the waitress said, “No sauce, then?” Paul grinned and joked, “Brown, what else. Come on, love.”

Once she’d fought down a giggle and left, John kicked Paul beneath the table.

“Bloody hell, John!” Paul rubbed his shin and glared. John stuck his tongue to the inside of his cheek, his eyebrows arching. “She’d have _your_ sauce if ye asked nicely.”

Paul flushed in a manner that shouldn’t be as fetching as it was. As he mumbled something into his tea, John bit his bottom lip. He flicked some ash off his cigarette and, after a beat, gently nudged Paul’s shin again.

“D’ye know where you’re headed?” John asked quietly.

“I’m on the convoy,” Paul answered. He stubbed out his cigarette and, exhaling some smoke over his shoulder, shifted so he leaned closer to John over the table. His eyelashes were soft and dark when he blinked. “We’ve still got t’get to America, y’know, even if they’re out of the war for the time being. Basically, me and the crew make sure the merchant ships get over there safely without, y’know –”

“Being blown up,” John supplied through a mouthful of smoke.

Paul made a face. “Well, yeah.”

He’d leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out so the tips of his shoes kept brushing the side of one of Paul’s legs. John fiddled with his cigarette, which he held up by his head, and watched Paul through the fringe that tangled in his glasses. “S’dangerous, then?”

“Oh yes,” Paul replied with a swift grin. “ _Very_.”

John smirked and rolled his eyes. “Shurrup. Can’t help bein’ curious. I am a man of the news, you know.”

“Thought you were a scribbler?” Paul sounded thoughtful.

Making as if to box him one, John said, “I’ll show ye scribbler.”

As Paul laughed and went, “Alright, leave it fer the BBC,” the waitress came and put two plates in front of them. Paul thanked her; John immediately hunched over and stabbed a chip with a fork. He realized that Paul was watching him in amusement when the weight of his gaze made him glance up.

“Problem?” he asked thickly.

“Dunno what I see in ye,” Paul replied, raising his eyebrows. He picked up his cutlery properly and started cutting up his egg. “It’s like sittin’ across from half an ape.”

“Careful I don’t grab yer banana,” John leered. Paul choked on a chip.

“Anyroad,” John continued lazily, “ye won’t get blown up.” He sounded so self-assured that Paul made a questioning noise. “Son, if ye think ye will, then ye will. Ever heard of positive thinking?”

“Yeah, you strike me as someone who does a lot of that.” The dryness in Paul’s tone made John laugh in surprise.

“’Ey up!” he exclaimed. “What’s that cheek I hear? Need another kicking, do ye, McCartney?”

Something wicked flitted through Paul’s eyes as he leaned forward. “What was that about likin’ it rough, Johnny?”

Heat prickled his skin. John swallowed, unable to tear himself away from Paul’s horrible looking face. Paul shot him an innocent smile and brought his laden fork to his mouth.

“You’re a menace,” John noted lowly. “Bet all the boys will like havin’ you as a sub-whatever.”

“Lieutenant,” Paul said, “and I’m not one for cake walks.”

“You’re assumin’ you’re the one who’ll have a pick.”

A thread of that same coquettishness entered Paul’s tone. “Well,” he started slowly, “I’d hate to pull rank…”

John’s groin tightened at the mere implication. His gaze darkened. “When d’ye get that new uniform, then?”

“Why?” Paul took a sip of tea. “Will I need inspecting?”

John shrugged casually. “Might do. Oughta check it’s up t’snuff. Won’t want the lads thinkin’ you’re lettin’ yerself slip.”

“How’s this.” John’s attention pricked as Paul propped his elbow on the table and cradled his chin in one palm. His eyes, which had slipped to half-mast, were positively sinful. Something had made him flush; he looked, with his full bottom lip slightly swollen where he’d been biting at it, like one of the photographs John had hidden beneath his mattress when he was a lad. John’s throat felt as if it had a fist around it. “Soon as I can, I get ye a picture. That way ye can tell me whether it’s up to your…” Paul’s gaze flicked down to John’s mouth, “snuff.”

A deep throb of heat immobilized him. Paul watched, amused, for a long moment, before he looked slowly down at John’s cigarette pack. “Light me one, would you?”

John automatically tapped out a single cig. He was about to hand it to Paul when, with a flicker of inspiration, he casually put it in his own mouth. Holding Paul’s gaze, John snapped his lighter and caught the end of it. With a single pull, he felt like warm, heady burn of tobacco in his throat, his lungs, his veins. He exhaled a short puff of smoke and blinked at Paul, whose mouth had parted damply. John took the cigarette from his lips and held it up to Paul.

“If ye want it,” he murmured, “take it.”

Paul’s eyes stuttered. He lowered his chin and reached out for the cigarette, his cheeks colouring more deeply the longer they watched each other. When his fingers brushed against John’s, a snap of electricity made John’s pulse start.

Maintaining eye contact, Paul brought the cigarette to his mouth. John’s attention dipped to focus on the slow bloom of smoke between Paul’s lips. Beneath the dull roar of the café ambience, he could hear the slight suck as Paul pulled the nicotine into his body. If John kissed him now, Paul would taste rough and slightly woody.

John repeated the words to himself. _If I kissed you._

Something must have entered his expression, because Paul blinked abruptly. Smoke curled from his nose as he ducked his gaze and tapped some ash onto the side of his plate. When he looked back up, John’s voice was slightly hoarse when he said, “Let’s do it.”

Paul stilled. “What?”

“The photo.” John licked his lips quickly. The words stuck in his throat. “Let’s take a photo.”

Paul stared at him for a beat before he let out a short laugh. Shaking his head to himself, he took a drag from his cigarette. “Yeah.” A smile pinched his lovely mouth. Paul’s expression was low and warm. “Alright. Shall we head?”

“God yes,” John said, and just like that, Paul laughed properly.

The sound made John grin. He watched as Paul’s nose wrinkled and his cigarette hand came up to hover in front of his mouth, as if he were slightly self-conscious. John caught a glimpse of Paul’s eyeteeth, which were slightly crooked. The sight was stupidly endearing.

They started to gather their things. John chucked a couple of coins on the table. With his cigarette in his mouth, Paul snapped the lapels of his coat. He caught John’s attention as he started buttoning the front of it. Raising one eyebrow, Paul teased, “You’re doin’ it again, John.”

“’Least I don’t look like bambi,” John threw back, although he was grinning. Paul shook his head and laughed, his cheeks flushed.

Following close behind Paul, they wound their way out of the café. The afternoon air remained chill: a sharp sea breeze swept up the street to rattle the passing trams and pedestrians. Women held onto their hats as they clicked past; men gripped the top part of their coats. John lit himself a cigarette. When he tipped his head back, smoke puffing out as he took the first drag, he realized Paul was watching him.

“I know a booth,” Paul said suddenly. “S’not far from here. Unless – I mean, unless ye didn’t –”

“Shurrup.” Much to his own surprise, John sounded gruff and fond. He pressed their shoulders together and regarded Paul with a lazy expression. “Lead the way, lieutenant.”

Paul smirked flirtatiously. “Aye, aye.” They started downhill from the train station. Their arms were pressed together as they kept pace. For once in his life, John thanked God or whatever deities that existed that it was cold enough for them to do so. He’d never felt conspicuous in what he was; what he’d known himself t’be since he was old enough to have a wank. All the same, he didn’t fancy getting put away for three years hard labour. If he survived the belting Mimi would give him first.

They fell into a companionable silence. John felt Paul solidly at his side, like he’d been there for years.

“All the lads have been houndin’ their girls for photos, ye know.” Paul’s voice was nonchalant. He flicked the end of his cigarette and caught John’s eye. “T’keep ‘em company, y’know.”

“Yeah?” The implication made the back of John’s neck prickle. He looked away to peer straight ahead as they walked, his long stride irritable despite the warmth that swelled in his veins. Shooting Paul a sideways glance, John pulled on his cig. “What d’ye suppose they want those for, then?”

“Haven’t the faintest,” Paul replied lightly. “Presumably they’re passionate about photography.”

John let out a bark of laughter. He grinned at Paul, whose eyes glittered with mirth.

“Mostly, though,” he continued after a beat, “they have photos of their sweethearts.”

His stomach swooped. “Oh, aye?”

“Mm. Lonely days and nights, and all that.” In John’s peripheral vision, Paul bit his lip. He brought his cigarette up to his mouth, paused, then took a drag.

“Does that exist fer us, d’ye reckon?” The honesty in John’s voice made Paul looked askance at him.

“’Course it does,” he replied in surprise. “I mean – sort of. Brian and –” He fell silent as a group of business men hurried past. When he resumed speaking, his voice was pitched low, “Brian and Flo have been together for years. On and off, mind, but still.”

 _Years._ The possibility made John run hot with mingled alarm and want. “Those old queens?” he forced himself to say. “That Jew and the accountant?”

Paul’s expression was blank, although there was a flicker of uncertainty when he said, “Yeah, them.”

 _Us and,_ John supplied. He shrank into smoking his cigarette. When they’d walked a few more blocks and it was burning dangerously low to his knuckles, he tossed it into the street.

They neared an archway that lead into an arcade, which was lined with various shop fronts, all of which were bustling with midday trade. The wind dropped off as they went inside. Electric lights gave tile floor a slightly clinical look, as if they were in a train station; steel supports conflated with the art deco fixtures. Paul nudged his elbow. John caught his eye, and Paul smiled and gestured towards a large booth between a tailor shop and a watch makers.

“This way, dear,” Paul teased. John snorted.

He shot Paul a clandestine look as they neared the booth. It was a bulky affair with a sign affixed to the top that read [PHOTOS – COMPLETED IN 3 MINUTES – 4 POSES 2’- !](http://facweb.cs.depaul.edu/sgrais/images/Photobooth/hard_days_night_01.jpg)

Coming to a stop just before it, John pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted. “I’ll not be much of a sweetheart,” he said abruptly.

Paul turned around in surprise. The short walk had mussed the hair on his forehead, making his dark eyelashes and eyebrows appear even softer, so much so that John was struck with the intense desire to touch a hand to his smooth face. Paul’s tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. “That’s alright,” he replied lightly, “I’ll be at the bottom of the ocean soon, remember?”

Fear made John snap heatedly, “Don’t say such rubbish.”

To his credit, Paul didn’t react to John’s outburst. With his hands in his pockets, Paul came the few steps that separated them. Pedestrians flowed around their odd pair as if they were a rock in a river; no one gave them a second glance. John couldn’t look away from Paul’s hazel eyes, which were wide and fixed upon his with such a naked understanding that John felt, quite suddenly, as if Paul knew exactly what he was feeling. Every upside down thought and backwards something that made up the blackened tangle of John Lennon.

“M’only joking,” Paul said. “Come ‘ead, give me a smile.”

John glared at him. “Bugger off.”

Paul laughed to himself and rolled his eyes. “’What a charmer’.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Come on, you promised me a bloody photo, didn’t ye?”

With as much stoicism as he could muster, John clambered into the photo booth after Paul. It was a great deal smaller inside than he thought it’d be. He elbowed Paul in the ribs as he twisted around to close the curtain. Paul complained, “Get off me foot, John,” and John deliberately leaned his weight back until Paul squawked. John laughed at Paul’s withering look.

They fidgeted into the double leather seat. Paul was pressed tight against his side. As Paul inspected the instructions, John became profoundly aware of the fact their thighs were flush against each other. He swallowed and, under the pretence of adjusting his glasses, glanced down between them. When he looked back, Paul was watching him with those same, half-mast eyes.

“Alright?” he asked quietly. John glanced helplessly down at his mouth.

“I’ve not got all day, McCartney,” he murmured. Paul’s gaze darkened as he smiled, a dimple pinching one cheek.

“Oh, right.” He pretended to ponder this as he deliberately hovered a hand over the various buttons. Paul made a _well, would ye look at that_ face and wondered, “Bloody hell, this is a bit complicated, hey?”

John chest twisted. He leaned in and whispered, with no heat, in Paul’s ear, “Liar.”

Paul turned his head to look at him from the corner of his eye. They were very close together. The scent of Ivory soap, smoke, and damp wool made John’s head spin. “Playin’ for time,” Paul corrected lowly. “Don’t want t’rush it.”

“I’ll turn to stone before you’ve started.” Outside the curtain, someone banged on the side of the booth. “Alright!” John yelled at them.

Paul laughed as John huffed in irritation. He fumbled through his pockets for two pence. Wedged in as they were, Paul had to press snugly against John’s chest in order to reach the bottom of his pocket. His hair tickled John’s nose. He meant to sound playful when he growled, “Get closer, why don’t ye,” but managed to only sound somewhat breathless. Paul tilted his head and grinned up at him.

“You’ve got freckles,” John said without thinking.

Paul’s grin faded into a wide smile. “Really?” he teased warmly. “Fancy that.”

If they didn’t hurry up, John would end up getting arrested for public indecency. “Right,” he grumbled, shoving Paul back over to his side of the booth, who went pliantly, laughing into the back of his hand. They fussed about with the machine, rereading the instructions – “It says press the button and wait”; “That’s what I ruddy well did, Paul!”; “Why’s it not working, then?” – and fumbling with the correct amount of change. The person outside said loudly, “Someone’s waiting, you know!”

“Get comfortable!” John called. Paul smothered his laugh.

Eventually a small red bulb blinked into existence. Outside of family portraits, the only other photo John had ever had taken was for his child’s passport. The weight of his own hideousness made him nervously flatten a hand to his voluminous hair. He made to take his specs off.

Paul reached out to touch his wrist. John stared at him. “Leave ‘em.” Paul licked his lips. “I – leave ‘em on.”

“Figures a sailor would like a sea monster,” John replied, but he lowered his hand. The back of his knuckles squashed firmly against the side of Paul’s thigh.

Prickles of warmth made John’s pulse beat light and quick. He darted a look to Paul, who was looking expectantly at the exposed camera lens. Feeling the weight of John’s gaze on his profile, he turned his head, a small smile curling across his mouth.

John felt his lips part. _This,_ he thought. _This is what I’ll remember._ Paul, pressed against him. Paul, and the way he studied John’s face, drinking him in, looking at him as if he were something to be looked at. Before he could stop himself, John reached up to push some of Paul’s hair off his forehead.

Paul blinked rapidly, something so vulnerable softening his voice when he asked, “What’s that for, then?”

“Nothing,” John replied quietly. “Wanted to, is all.”

“Please write to me,” Paul blurted. “When I’m away.”

John smiled slowly. The intimate weight of the moment suffused them. He felt a deep thrum of longing. _God,_ he thought distantly, _I want to kiss you._

“Paul,” he admitted, “I won’t be able to stop.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought, either here or on my tumblr @stonedlennon!


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